Healthy, wealthy, wise and happy

As I sat on my suitcase; still shoving doo-dads into its sides, while zipping it up for its trip to Italia this week, I took a moment to reflect on how blessed I am. I’m going to Europe for a two weeks! For some people that’s no big deal, but for me, travel is something I savor. I’ve saved and sacraficed for this trip. I’ve forgone fun and debauchery. Hell, I’ve missed some good jazz concerts with my Italia trip goal in mind.

Do you ever just stop? Stop to smell the coffee, the roses, or look up into the sky and think damn, my life is pretty good?

Hell, I have had my bad days too. Fuck, don’t we all? For the most part, I’m…healthy, wealthy, wise and happy -
Healthy: I’m healthy. Namaste.
Wealthy: Nope. Make no mistake. I’m not tied to the Rockefeller’s, the Dupont’s, or some other wealthy blood line. I’m Neve frugal. I shop at Unique Thrift. I drive a paid for car and I live in a very modest house. Yes, I have my indulgences: I have three adopted pussies that were living on the streets of Cleveland. I like to think their lives are a lot better now after coming to live at Chez Black’s. I do like to eat good food and sometimes I drink a bit too much (insert bar tabs). I also love to travel and purchase items in the art and music categories. It’s a balance though. I scrimp here and go overboard there: Eat rice and beans and drink cheap beer all week so I can save money and buy something really cool, like one of these.
Wise: Hmmm…I was always one of those persons in school that had to be diligent at every subject. Nothing really ever came easy for me, except for English classes. What a wonder that is. I had to work at that too though. I do lots of research to try and stay wise. I read, read and then read some more.
Happy: I’m a very happy person. I know. I know, cheese city. Sorry. I’m lucky to have attracted people in my life that love and care about me, and I love and care about them. I’ve met some really fantastic and talented writers since taking a dip into the world of erotica writing too, and hey, thanks for letting me stay in the pool for awhile with you. My fingers are really getting pruny. I love it.
What about you? Did I miss something? Maybe humility? That’s a good one.
p.s. I know the guy in the photo has absolutely nothing to do with this post, but damn isn’t he HOT? I guess he could contribute to healthy and happy though, so he’s applicable, I suppose. I couldn’t resist. Please thank the ladies at Lust Bites for this wetman image.

"Tall and tan and young and lovely…

the girl from Ipanema goes walking and when she passes, each one she passes goes a-a-a-ah. When she walks she’s like a samba that, swings so cool and sways so gentle, that when she passes each one she passes goes “a-a-ah!”

Why do I have a picture of the Brazilian lovely, Giselle Bundchen on my blog, while quoting The Girl from Ipanema lyrics? It’s really quite simple. This weekend is the 50th year celebration of the Bossa Nova. The samba swing that Antonio Carlos Jobim so eloquently refered to when he wrote the famous Bossa Nova song above.

This weekend while you’re enjoying the last hoorah of summer, tune your dial way over to the left (so properly placed) and find your local classical jazz station and enjoy a little Bossa Nova, my friends. If you happen to indulge in satellite radio, Pure Jazz 72 on Sirius is playing Bossa Nova all weekend. Oooh la, la!


p.s. Sorry, Giselle cannot be purchased via Etsy.

I forgot to take my medication…

and I’m sorry…. I had one of those moments last week and I just left a handwritten note card for someone that basically says, “Hi. I was a raving lunatic last week. Please accept my apologies.”

Have you ever had one those melt down moments? Once you calm your ass down, you find yourself scratching your head thinking, “Damn. I was a real asswipe, huh?”

I’m the type of person that says all the things that others in a group are too afraid to say. You know what I mean, right? If there’s an issue; a pink elephant standing in the middle of room and everyone is wondering about it, but no one wants to step up and ask the host or hostess the one simple question: “Hey, why the fuck is there a pink animal in the middle of your living room?” Well, I’m the person that speaks up. I ask the questions. I want to know. I’ve tried to be tactful in my Spanish Inquisition approach, but hell, I’m just asking what everyone else is thinking, but too bashful to utter the words.

My neighbors that live a couple houses down from me are delusional. How is that, you ask? Well, first of all they think they’re practicing their heavy, metal, amplified to the highest platform possible rock music in a downtown Los Angeles recording studio: Sound proofed, expensive to rent, etc. Secondly, they think they’re good enough to be practicing in a downtown Los Angeles recording studio. It’s important to say that they feel the need to practice a lot. Clearly, I’m no record label executive scouting the midwest for the next rising rock stars, but these guys…well, the line forms in the back, dudes.

I came home last Sunday and I wanted to sit outside on my patio with my laptop, glass of wine and enjoy the evening. I was looking forward to a peaceful evening of porn writing. The wanna be rock stars were doing their thing on the second floor of their two story house that they rent. Oh gee, lucky for the neighborhood, they had all the windows open too.

Their band consists of an amplified, electric guitar, bass, full drum set and a lead singer, that I’m sorry to say isn’t the next James Hetfield, the lead vocalist from the 1980′s metal sensation band Metallica. Needless to say, my window and walls, like everyone else in the neighborhood, and in Pittsburgh, PA were reverberating. I WANTED TO KILL THEM. Tomorrow’s front page newspaper would read: “Woman loses mind and kills wanna be rock musicians in her neighborhood….details on page B4.”

I blew a gasket. I marched over to their house in my flip-flop meaning business ways and banged on their front door; frantically hoping and praying that God would send an electrical storm down from the sky above and cut the power off from their house. Or they’d tire and need to take a break from practicing their “music” and hear me pounding on their door to a different beat. Nope. God was not parting the skies for me on that day. These guys were relentless. They were like whales that never needed to come up for air. The fucking band played on.

I did however find their landlord. He lives across the street. He’s someone I know well. He built my house and I have the utmost respect for him, except when it comes to his tenants. Let’s just say, he received the lashing of a lifetime from Neve. It wasn’t the good kind of lashing either. It was a verbal lashing and I said some not so nice things. The music stopped though and I haven’t heard a peep from those delusional musicians. Thank you God.

That was nearly a week ago and I feel badly about what I said, thus the handwritten note I secretly set inside his mail box today. A little token, acknowledging my bad bahvior; a peace offering. Along with my apology, I also offered to pay for a couple round of beers the next he and are bellying up at the same neighborhood bar. That should work. :-)



p.s. The note cards above can be purchased via Etsy here.

Play it again Sam…

I’m working on a story that takes place in a bar. Not just any bar you see, no. This bar is dirty, seedy and run down, but it’s also rich with smoky hues. It’s owned by a ___ (oops, almost gave it away). This bar is a little place located in your neighborhood, maybe just around the corner from your humble abode, and it’s just gritty enough that I’d frequently saddle up and order a cocktail. You know what kind of bar I’m referring to, don’t cha’?

I’m a visual kind a gal, so it’s not unusual for me to pull up images through the internet, or better yet, take a walk, a drive, or Vespa (Italia) my way to find a good visual representation for whatever story I’m working on. I have a bar in my house, but it’s not really a bar, per se, it’s more like a cart with booze and wine on it. That’s not the kind of bar I’m looking for exactly in my story.

I’m headed to Morocco tomorrow in the name of bar research. I feel compelled to drink champagne cocktails with Bogie and Bergman in the film classic Casablanca.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”

Damn. That gives me goose bumps.


Busy and Tired

I had a crazy-ass weekend. In between juggling 5ive different stories, with fast approaching deadlines, getting ready to leave for my trip to Italy, attending a birthday bash that unexpectedly continued into the wee hours of the morning, supporting friends that love the bard, and oh yes, dancing on top of a bar (nearly naked) well past the stroke of midnight… I’m really tired today….
I think I might sleep in a bit this week, with the Italian pictured above. He looks so peaceful, doesn’t he? I could climb into the picture and snuggle up right next to him and fall fast asleep until…well he woke up and then, well, I probably won’t get much sleep afterall. Maybe I should just sleep in my own bed. I know, that’s not nearly as much fun.
Here’s a taste of a story I’m working on: This picture is one of many pictures of Kelly Slater that reside on the screen of my computer now. Why you ask? So I can refer to his body as inspiration. Isn’t he a nice muse?

Anyway, once again, if I don’t post for a couple days, there’s no need to be alarmed, I’m just busy working on stories, sleeping in with Italians and searching for perfect prose to describe surfing with hunks.

p.s. How was your weekend?

The Real Deal

I spotted this article yesterday via the internet and I have to admit, I breathed a little sigh of relief after reading and digesting. I’m pretty confidant that most of you tuning into this blog, are wired like me and find fake, well, just that, fake and unappealing.

As an example of fake versus real, it’s been a mixed blessing that my budget doesn’t allow me to purchase expensive designer labels made by Karl Lagerfeld, Cartier, or Armani. Sure, I’d love to own a fabulous Chanel jacket some day, but in between writing a best selling novel, I’ve learned to shop for cool, vintage pieces at thrift stores instead. Thrift store shopping has opened a door that I wouldn’t have noticed if I was filthy rich; not batting an eyelash when purchasing fancy-schmancy Coco Chanel. Staying on a budget, keeps me real and humble.
I feel the same way about plastic surgery. I don’t have the budget for a new set of boobs, fuller lips, less wrinkles and a higher ass (just 2″, please), but in this case, even if I did, I would spend the money on things like travel, books, art work and guitar lessons. Or give donations to people that have serious illnesses, or animals and children that don’t have a fighting chance.
I try and keep the things that go inside of my body as real as possible, I suppose. On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being the highest, I fall in the 7 category of natural. I don’t wear much makeup, I prefer tank tops, shorts and flip-flops and I try and eat right, excercise and oh yeah, decline visits to plastic surgeons.

Live hard…

ride easy….

I saw today’s blog title on the back of some guy’s jacket while he was riding a motorcycle this week and I thought…hmmm…my philosophy is just the opposite. The back of my jacket would read: Live easy, ride hard.

The Male…

cock, uh… I mean brain. No, cock. No, brain. Wait, I meant to say the male cock-brain is explained.

Hell, isn’t my point that it’s both? Aren’t they wired together in some way? Isn’t there some type of impirical evidence proving this now? Gone are the days when you’d hear someone say, “Well, you know Prudence, he was thinking with the other head…” Two heads are always better than one, in my opinion. I come from the mind set of the more the merrier too though. What do I know? I’m just a porn writer.
I read an article titled: The Male Brain Explained and found some points within the article interesting, I suppose. Here’s just a taste:
Women have puzzled over it for years—why the heck do men do the things they do? Why do they profess their love for you one minute, then ignore you the next (say, when an Attila the Hun special turns up on TV)? Why can they not remember our birthdays? Let science explain some of these conundrums—and help you rev up your relationships!”

“Help you rev up your relationships…?”
I’m not claiming to be an expert on men. I’m a woman. Hold on, let me check. Yep, I still have all those womanly parts that coincide with being a woman. I think having the home court advantage is important when understanding men and woman: Men know men better than women know men and visa versa.
Without having to get into all the scientific reasons why men do this and woman do that, I think keeping things simple is best. The best way to rev up a relationship with a man or woman is to start communicating while naked, of course. If you want something a bit more racy, then hell, go for an indoor slip and slide; add the crisco oil and learn some new types of communication skills. That should surely do the trick. Not into props, you say? Okay, no problem. Just take your clothes off, smile and see what happens.
I don’t understand why the subject of deciphering how a man’s brain-cock works or a woman’s brain-clitoris works is so baffling for some people. Men might be from Mars and women from Venus when it comes to deciphering brain activity, but what species do you know that doesn’t like to fuck? And if you really think about it, isn’t that the best form of communication?
p.s. The squid (or is it cock?) in the basket painting above can be purchased here.

Sex and the Semicolon

As I sit in my favorite black, leather writing chair, sipping on a glass of Sonoma…(hold on..checking, checking….Oh, sorry, the wine is actually from Oregon’s Willamete Valley. No offense NoCal) white tonight, I ponder over everything I’ve read, touched, or viewed today. I can feel the sexiness of the semicolon firing synapses from my brain down to my finger tips again.

Ahhh… the semicolon. It’s s one of my favorite forms of puncuation. The semicolon is racy and seductive…a real bad boy, with an aversion to commitment.

Who doesn’t like a bad boy every now and again, right? It’s just more good reason to embrace our punctuation friend, and the love of my grammar life, the semicolon.
It’s no surprise to anyone that has read my work prior to it’s final edit that I am a semicolon junkie. I know I over fucking use the semicolon. I think I might have been bitten by the semicolon love bug though. Too many good semicolon orgasms to forget.
Using the semicolon is similar to a trial separation: It’s not a divorce, but it’s not sleeping in the same bed 24/7 either. There’s a semicolon in between the relationship. It’s not as loose as the comma, but it’s not as severe as the final period.
The semicolon’s use is to separate two independent clauses… that are related to one another. Or, you use the semicolon to separate three or more items. For example: I was completely out of batteries for my vaginal vibrator, clitoral pocket rocket; vibrating anal beads; bzzzz cock ring and…well, you get the idea, right?
There are some that argue the use of the semicolon isn’t a bad boy at all, but instead a base, prissy, girly-girl form of punctuation and well, I’m sure there are those that would say it’s over-used. No counter from me on the latter. There are those that would say the semicolon should die a slow death too. Gasp! Inflicting pain on the love of my punctuation life…no, no, say it isn’t so. Or referring to my semantics lover as a girly-girl is a bit sexist and well, ouch…painful. Actually those remarks are probably stemmed from fear: Knowing the prowess of their writing just isn’t strong enough to withstand the natural, sultry heat of the semicolon.
For me, I recognize the lethal powerhouse of punctuation pleasure the semicolon has to offer. I’d rather not have my prose shy away from this hot companion. It’s been said that love is blind. I use the semicolon in more ways than I should, I suppose, but deep down inside, I know and accept the semicolon’s sex appeal lies in the simple fact that the semicolon is, well, just commitment phobic and sometimes that’s just sexy.

p.s. The magnet above can be purchased here.

An Orgasm

a day…might be the answer to world peace.

I’m sure you’ve all had the same revelation regarding the big O and world peace, right? Yeah, I know this idea has crossed my mind 100′s of times before too, but…I’ve gained new intelligence on the subject and I want to share.
I met three lovely, young ladies on Sunday night. I was at festival. I was drinking Italian wine, and voila! I sat down next to three charming women and wouldn’t you know, the conversation turned to sex. I dunno how that happens, I swear.
Anyway, these ladies told me about this massager designed specifically for clitoral stimulation and its promises to deliver Yes, God, Yes (Oooh, sorry) 1,2,3,4…etc, orgasms, but hey, whose counting? The massager conveniently slips onto your finger of masturbating choice.
What makes this finger rocket so important is that it reaches more of the mainstream audience. You see, it’s made by our condom friends over at Trojan: Her Pleasure, Vibrating Touch, Fingertip Massager (and yes, I’m adding one of these to my repetoire). I was informed that this finger pleasure nodule is currently being advertised on television in between the erectile dysfunction commercials during the dinner hour. It’s discreet; it’s convenient and you can purchase it on-line, or for additional convenience, OTC at your neighborhood grocery store. Looking for condoms or lube? Pick up one of these baby’s while you’re browsing in that aisle.
Wait, there’s more to my orgasm and world peace theory-
My friend DK sent me an article (he’s such a tease) about the importance of use-it-or-lose-it when it comes to sexual, ahem, health. Here’s an excerpt from the article:
“Results support the use-it-or-lose-it hunch. Having sex once a week halved men’s chances of developing erectile dysfunction, compared with a less-than-once-a-week schedule. (The study also hinted that the more often men had sex, the better they fared.)”
Then DK shot me another article about spray on condoms. No. I’m. Not. Kidding. Spray on Condoms. The concept of the spray on condom is to acheive the perfectly fitted, pregnancy and STD prohibitor, while still enjoying a GREAT, blow your socks off, use the Lord’s name in vain, orgasm.
Note: No word back whether or not DK is going to purchase a spray on condom and I’m already out $20 for the finger massager, so someone reading this has to step up and purchase the spray on effect and report back via this blog.
So, after receiving all this information within a short 24 hour period of time, I thought, hmmm… if someone keeps cumming up with new and improved ways to have orgasms; making it easier and easier to achieve one, then why couldn’t everyone on the entire planet have an orgasm at the exact same time, sending peace SOS signals into the universe; thus my answer to creating world peace, baby.
Peace & Orgasms
p.s. The World Peace necklace above can be purchased here via Etsy.